You came from the north, my friend,
Bearing a stele from Binzhou in hand.
It was written by Lord Yan, you say,
A gift I cannot refuse today.
Lord Yan was a hero, brave and true,
Loyal and righteous in all he'd do.
I recall the last years of Tianbao,
When rebellion from Yuyang did grow.
Fierce warriors dared not stand in its way,
But scholars raised the righteous banner to sway.
Moved by his cause, many regions joined the fight,
Allied together against the Qiang's might.
Newly formed, their force was still weak,
Yet the foe's strength showed no sign to break.
In the end, their arms did not prevail,
A sigh for fate's odd, tragic tale.
Brother Gao died at Changshan, a martyr's end,
Tears of the steadfast their cheeks did rend.
Lord Yan did not fall to the enemy's sword,
The world then enjoyed peace, in accord.
Why did he not choose death, why not die?
To tread again on the whale's fin, oh why?
He surely did not fear death's cold embrace,
But I grieve for that time, that wretched place.
Distant, I ponder his noble deed,
Alas, that I was born too late indeed.
Lately I've heard a strange tale unfold,
Its author's name remains untold.
It claims that Lord Yan never truly died,
A marvel that cannot be denied.
Most likely, in every heart under heaven's dome,
Thoughts of Lord Yan find a lasting home.
And with this tale of his undying state,
Our bitter sighs and grief abate.
I wish to weep at his tomb, but lo,
Its wild, unknown location I do not know.
I cherish the traces of his life's span,
Though scattered and few, where'er I can.
These characters flowed from his very hand,
At one glance, my sighs and woes disband.
Had he not excelled in calligraphy's art,
Ink and brush would wander, clumsy and apart.
Thinking of his life, his deeds so grand,
How could one bear to discard them, unmanned?
Moreover, these characters are strangely wrought,
Majestic and grand, with dignity fraught.
Vigorous yet deeply poised, a steady might,
Bones aged, forming branches, a disjointed sight.
Each stroke and dot in harmony does blend,
Connected, with no conflict to mend.
Like a single human frame, complete,
With nose and mouth, ears, eyes, a seat.
Each feature differs in shape and face,
Yet all are joined in interlace.
Like scattered stars across the sky,
Apart, yet holding bonds on high.
Left and right, they link and meet,
Forming the Dipper or Winnow, neat.
Bones severe, the form upright and grave,
Placed without tilt, steady and brave.
Like a bronze tripod with belly wide,
Or a tall house with no weak beam inside.
Ancient vessels match the proper scale,
Forms and laws follow rule without fail.
Imagine when his brush first touched the sheet,
Dignified, not humble in his feat.
Yu and Liu were masters, fine, no doubt,
Yet bound by rules, their freedom locked out.
Their brushwork not free from common trend,
Mediocre hands still dare to pretend.
Since I beheld these characters' grace,
Blank paper holds no use, no place.
A cart gathers a hundred trees, it's true,
The axe and adze find their work to do.
That round, bright moon up in the sky,
To paint its shape—in vain we try.
Who would have thought his loyal, righteous heart,
Had strength to spare for this art?
Thus, through these few sheets of paper spread,
Deep sighs and awe within me are bred.